Page 67 of Alice Carver Manifests Her Perfect Life
Matthew stared at me for a second, frowning, and then pulled out his phone. ‘I like your thinking, Alice,’ he said, without looking up from his screen.
‘What?’
But he didn’t answer straightaway. I listened to the beat of the rain and waited.
‘Have you got plans later tonight?’ he asked.
I couldn’t tell if he was just making conversation or whether he was asking because he was planning to spend more time with me. I thought about lying, but then took the risk and didn’t. ‘No. None.’
‘Anything pressing early tomorrow morning… ? Work stuff that can’t wait?’
It was Sunday tomorrow. The only pressing commitment I had was to a long lie-in. ‘I know I come across as quite the career-woman, but my diary is pretty clear.’
Matthew glossed over my sarcasm. ‘And you’re still up for more manifesting with me?’
‘Er, of course I am,’ I said, trying to sound casual. ‘It’s more a question of your suitability and commitment.’
‘I said I was committed to trying manifesting tonight. And I am. But are you happy for us to try talking to Capricorn more directly?’
‘How directly?’ I looked nervously at the miserable weather outside. I may have overemphasised my affinity to nature. ‘I don’t want to get wet.’
‘Fair enough,’ said Matthew, picking up his phone and making a call. I could vaguely hear the sound of a female voice answering. ‘Hey. Tall order I know, but can you organise a helicopter within the hour? And a car to collect me? I’m still in Chiswick.’
What?
He looked over at me, ‘Sorry,’ he whispered, ‘I forgot to check if you were comfortable with me using my privilege and obvious status symbols to fix a meeting with Capricorn… ? I don’t want you to have to sacrifice any principles, so we can use public transport if you prefer?’
I stared at him, momentarily lost for words. ‘No, no,’ I said at last. ‘I could probably manage to push through. Helicopter’s fine.’
A couple of hours later, and as we hurtled round bendy single-track lanes that did not seem road-worthy, narrowly avoiding the dense overhanging woodland on all sides, I was starting to think Matthew’s ideas of privilege and status were not the same as mine; or at least, he certainly used his differently to how I would. Not only was I now sober and feeling car sick, but I was frankly freaked out by the direction this journey had taken.
It had all started incredibly promisingly: as Matthew made brief arrangements, I’d tried to contain my excitement whilst planning what to wear. But as soon as he’d finished on the phone, Matthew told me I didn’t have time to change and that what I was wearing was fine, all I needed was a thick coat, andhanded me another glass of wine. And then the car arrived (big step up from your average Uber) and we drove the short distance to Ham Polo Club where our own private helicopter was waiting, and someone gave me a glass of champagne and welcomed me on board, and then within minutes, we were in the air, flying over London.
It was even better than I imagined it would be. Matthew said he needed to do a bit of work, so I looked out the window, through the raindrops, and watched the city pass by below, and took some selfies that will beat the shit out of anyone else’s, even if my hair was a bit damp. And then it started to get darker and even though it was no longer raining outside, I couldn’t really see anything below apart from uninteresting shapes, and I’d finished my champagne a while back, and then the helicopter started to slow. It took me a while to realise we were descending in the middle of this uninteresting nowhere, and for the first time I fully apprehended that our Saturday night out was going to be more than just a helicopter ride, so I said, ‘Are we meant to be landing here? Or are we having an accident?’
Matthew looked up briefly from his phone. ‘Yeah. There’s a car coming. Don’t worry.’
So I relaxed and hoped this car was as luxurious as the last one, which had had cream leather seats and Fiji water (free). But itreallywasn’t. It was one of those old-fashioned Land Rovers, which was:
Hard to get into, unless you’re of Astrid / Matthew / Ebba unreasonably tall stature, or capable of doing the splits.
Hard on the hips / thighs / arms / head when you’re repeatedly flung against its sides.
The uncomfortable car was driven by a surly-looking chap who was clearly not going to serve any refreshments, and there was zero conversation because of the overriding sound of a vehicle attempting to navigate terrain that did not want to be navigated. I was becoming increasingly concerned when the car slowed down and then turned left, into even thicker trees, and onto what can only be described as hostile territory. The branches were cracking against the windows in a distinctly aggressive manner, and at one point the car pretty much drove vertically and I cast a sideways glance at Matthew who was still glued to his phone screen and I had the horrible thought that he may have planned something awful for me. Deliberately.
Suddenly we came to a stop.
‘You’re taking it from here?’ said the man.
Matthew put his phone in his pocket and nodded at the man. ‘Yeah.’
‘All the arrangements have been made. Any problems, you know how to contact us.’
What arrangements? This whole trip was becoming decidedly sinister.
‘Yep,’ said Matthew, swinging his long legs out of the car. ‘Coming, Alice?’
I really didn’t want to get out of the car and that’s saying something because I didn’t like the car at all. ‘It’s very woody,’ I called.
